Wasted Shot
by St. Minority
Summary: Jack's thoughts after he shoots Barbossa in COTBP. Little slashy Jack/Barbossa. Mostly angst.


**Title:** Wasted Shot  
**Propmt:** Please and Loathing  
**Characters/Pairings:** Jack/Barbossa, Will, Elizabeth  
**Warning:** brief slashy mentions, language  
_A/N: I've always been intrigued by Jack's expressions when he shoots Barbossa, and it really struck me to write something finally. This is really like an internal monologue by Jack as the action is taking place._

* * *

  
The shot rings out, and you're frozen. So am I, though not for the same reasons. I know my eyes are conveying more than they should, but you're the only one who can see into them directly. And this revengeful, satisfied gaze is for you only anyway. One can only hope it feels like daggers stabbing you to match the bullet now lodged in your heart. Fitting that the shot should take up residence there since you've damaged _mine_ three times, is it not?

As the smoke drifts off, I can tell you're afraid of what the consequences are. No one else would know though because you hide it so well. You're losing control of the situation and it makes you worry, and they can't see it. But I can. It's one of your rare expressions I remember fondly, whenever you allowed me that glimpse of vulnerability like I allowed you to see of me the times I laid beneath you.

I should not have thought of the past. The anxiety increases to where I can barely stand it. The unforgiving sting, I can feel, in my eyes begins to slowly fade.

"Ten years ya carry that pistol and now you waste your shot," you state with a smile as if to convince yourself that the odds are still in your favor.

I feel like a coward. It makes me sick. I shouldn't have taken the easy way out this time, mate. You deserved to have a fair, exhausting battle _after_ you became mortal to determine who dies. I cheated you.

My mouth opens a little as if prodding me to say something, but I can't, and Will replies instead.

"He didn't waste it."

If he only knew. If he only _knew._ I _did_ waste it because you shouldn't be dying by it yet.

Watching you pull open your vest to reveal the blood spilling out of the wound……It's almost too much.

"I feel…..cold."

I feel angry. Despicable. Regretful. Low. It makes no sense at all! Ten years I've waited to put that bullet in your heart, to follow through successfully unlike your attempts to kill me. I despise these emotions now overwhelming me.

As you fall backward, I reach out slightly to perhaps stop you, but it's of no use. Besides, what would the whelp and the lass think if I did such a thing?

When the two of them scurry off to god-knows where, I kneel beside you, close my eyes for a moment, and sigh. What I wouldn't give to stop the mixed sensations coursing through me.

"Sorry, love. Guess you should've made sure I was dead the first time, eh?"

Buggering hell! Why am I having difficulty speaking?! And why, god damn it, _why_ are there tears clouding my vision?! Why am I not grinning like mad, celebrating like the victorious, feeling something other than misery?!

"Damn it, Hector. Ye always predicted I would never have what it takes to kill you. Christ, how I wish you had been right, mate. Satisfied? You fucking…….Damn it. We're even, savvy? You took what I wanted most, now I've taken what _you_ wanted most. Stop making me feel guilty. Ye deserved this."

I wipe the disgraceful streaks of water from my face and brush my fingers against your cool cheek. My lips soon replace them, and it takes everything I have to not shout at the top of my lungs from the surprise anguish this is causing me.

"Please forgive me, love."

After I whisper the words in your ear, I stand up to walk with trembling legs. They take me to a pile of jewels, silver, and gold. What's left but to go through it all?

The items I don't care for are tossed over my shoulder. It's possible they make a loud disturbance when they hit the ground somewhere, but I'm not sure. At the moment, I can't hear; I can't speak; I can't think; I can't care.

The only thing I _can_ seem to focus on is how strongly I want you alive again, to fight you, hit you, argue with you, to feel you, to taste you……It's a fool's wish.

I pause for a moment, inhale deeply, and wonder. I do know that you're Hector Barbossa, and death is most likely more of a _guide_line than an actual fate for you. If that's the case, I _will_ see you again, mate, and give you that fight you ought to have.


End file.
